


Part-Time

by orphan_account



Category: Green Hornet (2011)
Genre: Community: queerlygen, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Queer Gen, Teenagers, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teenaged Britt has a fight with his father and a talk with the chauffeur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part-Time

**Author's Note:**

> For the QueerlyGen "Family" flashfic challenge.
> 
> I'm pretty sure this isn't what most people would write when they set out to write _Green Hornet_ fic, but inspiration happens.
> 
> This fic is gen in the sense of "the point of the fic is not a romantic relationship". It contains cussing, violent talk, anti-gay prejudice and a sexually active seventeen year old.
> 
> Orphaning because I am shy.

"There you are."

Britt started at the sound of George's voice, his long limbs starting to uncurl. The boy relaxed when he recognized the old chauffeur, and curled back into himself, his bare toes clutching the edge of the garden bench.

This nook in the Reid summer house's garden was one of Britt's favourite haunts, though George would have been surprised if anyone but himself and Britt knew it. There was a single metal bench set into the ground by the ornamental pool, hidden on both sides by low-hanging branches. The bench was much too cool for something tucked away in shadow, so hardly anyone ever used it. Britt used to come here to watch the turtles and hide from Mr Reid when he was younger. He was nearly seventeen now and the turtles were long gone.

"Go away, George," he said.

"Is that any way to talk to your elders?"

"Fuck off."

George moved up and sat his heavy bottom down on the bench. His arthritis wasn't going to be happy about that, but what could he say, he was a giving man. He gave Britt a resounding slap at the back of his head.

"Ow! Shit!" Britt shot him a nasty look.

"I don't think that's the word you're looking for," George said sternly.

"Just leave me alone!" Britt snapped. "I don't feel like fucking sharing and I _don't need a car_ , okay?"

George just looked at him with a slight frown. Things were changing. A few years back, Britt would never have said such a thing to him, no matter how hurt and angry he was - but, George reminded himself, he was hurt, and he was angry, and hell, George had been that age once too. He kept his gaze level and watched the boy's anger falter. Britt turned away, but not before George had seen he was close to tears.

"Britt," he said gently, resting a hand at the boy's shoulder. Britt shoved it away at first, but not when George tried it the second time. "The garage door was open. I heard all of it. Look at me!"

Britt did, glaring at him defiantly through red eyes.

"He's not the most important thing in the world," George told him kindly.

"What do you know? You don't know him."

George blinked. "I meant your father."

"Oh." Britt turned away.

"He's what this is all about, isn't it? I know you've been fooling around with girls since you were barely old enough to know about birds and bees, and then all of a sudden you bring a boy to the summerhouse on the one weekend your Dad's even around?"

Britt didn't react, just looked out across the pond at the juniper trees beyond.

"I know you, Britt," George continued. "You try to make him hate you just so he'll look at you sometimes. I've been around your whole life. Hell, I was there when your mama had your baby shower. Don't tell me I don't know what I'm talking about."

"Not this time, George. Ed just showed up at the house. I didn't ask him to." His fingers clenched into a fist. "Dad didn't have to do that to him, or say all those things. You heard him, right? He'd have my balls if I said some of those words in public. He just threw them at his face!"

"I heard."

"I hate him. I want to kill him, George. I swear I could wring his fucking neck. When I'm 18, I am so out of here, and then I never want to see his face again."

George took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh. He sat back at the bench, twining his fingers over his belly. "It ain't gonna work like that," he said after a moment. "You probably know that."

"Fuck you, George."

"Language, Britt. Try it one more time and you get more then a slap on the head." He said it quietly, but made sure Britt heard the warning in his tone loud and clear. The boy fell into a sullen silence. "You're rich, Britt. The rules just ain't the same for you folks as for us ordinary citizens. I've been driving your sort around for a few decades now and there's not one of you tried to run that didn't end up crawling back to family money in the end."

Britt laughed bitterly. "So what am I supposed to do? Let him run my life? No f-- No way, George. Whatever he wants me to do, that's what I'm not gonna do. What difference does it make anyway? He's never going to care. He's never going to listen. Why should I give a damn what he thinks?"

"Because he's your father, Britt."

"Yeah, well, I'm his son," Britt spat. "And if that doesn't mean anything to him, then I don't owe him shit." With that, he straightened and stood up.

"Where do you think you're going?" George asked. "It's almost dinner time."

"I'm going to hotwire Dad's favourite car, go find Ed and blow him in the backseat."

George sighed. "You can't do that, Britt."

"Watch me."

"You don't even know how to hotwire a car. Here." George dug out his keychain, unhooked the key to the Audi and handed it to the boy.

"Oh." Britt stared at the key in his hand. "Um, thanks."

"Wait." George opened his wallet, silently pulled out a string of three condoms and handed those over as well. Britt's face was bright pink, but he pocketed this second offering without a word.

"As a Christian, I gotta tell you it's a sin," George grunted. "I told the same thing to my niece 20 years ago, and I haven't mentioned it to her once since."

"Right. Uh, anything else?"

"Remember road safety," George added. "And don't scratch the paint. It'll be on my head if you do."

"Thanks, George. Um. Sorry about what I said before."

"Apology accepted. Go drive your dad crazy."

Britt grinned, nodded and sped off through the foliage towards the garage. George sighed, deciding to torture his bones on the metal a little bit longer just to get a rest.

It was a nice day, at least. Flecks of sunlight danced at his feet. After a while there was the sound of the engine coming to life, then the door going and James Reid's voice shouting down the driveway. George ignored it and dug out a box of cigarettes. He was on break.

It was no use worrying about the long run. All you could do was take care of what was right in front of you, be it screwed-up rich kids or finding the right combination of meds so you wouldn't get your second heart attack in the middle of the road. He was an old man. Could be Britt would have to finish growing up all on his own. No helping that.

George had few illusions left. Maybe that defiant streak would hold out and make Britt into his own man, or maybe he'd waste his energy in pointless rebellion, end up just another piece of expensive trash with no prospects, no skills, no drive. The wise money was on the latter. But, hell - George was no miracle-worker.

He drew in hot smoke and blew it in patterns towards the sky as the roar of the engine disappeared down the road.


End file.
